


Angel of Soho

by GenericUsername01



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Agender Aziraphale (Good Omens), Aziraphale's Bookshop (Good Omens), Eldritch Aziraphale, Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), Other, POV Outsider, Queer Themes, Soho, That just sorta happened, Warlock Tags Along, and he has no idea, aziraphale is SUPER OBVIOUSLY NOT HUMAN, spooky inhuman cryptid angel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-23
Updated: 2020-04-23
Packaged: 2020-12-31 15:41:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21148127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GenericUsername01/pseuds/GenericUsername01
Summary: There's an angel in Soho, and he thinks he's subtle. He's a benevolent spirit, if you do right by him.A collection of stories from the perspectives of those who have encountered the being.





	1. The Enchanted Door

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The door to the bookshop only opens to certain people, and under certain circumstances.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for an allusion to domestic violence or abuse of some sort. It isn't discussed or shown on the page
> 
> Characters likely will not be long term, unless like, a lot of people like them like what happened with Amy in my other fic lol. I'm figuring 9 times out of 10 they'll show up for one chapter only, to show a specific aspect or side of the story

Frankie has never been to the bookshop.

She'd asked about it, once, and her mom had just said they didn't sell any books there. Frankie had been seven, and so she wanted to ask a million questions, but they'd had to do things right then and her mom had shushed her.

Now, though, she was twelve. And Mr. Fell's bookshop was a cool place for kids to hang out and say they're doing homework and then get absolutely no homework done, and all her friends wanna go there.

"Are they open?" Brayden asked, trying to peer over Kiersten's shoulder.

"Don't you guys come here all the time?" Frankie asked. "Look, the lights are on, there's people in there, let's just go in."

She walked around her friends and pushed on the door. It refused to budge. She frowned. She tried again.

"It won't open unless you read the sign," Reuben said. "It's been math problems for like, a month and a half now. Changes every day."

"What?"

"Look," Neveah said. "You solve the problem, you learn the opening hours. But the door doesn't unlock until you solve it. That's just how it works."

"That's stupid."

"It's _super _stupid," Brayden muttered.

Frankie pushed her way through to see the sign, and sure enough, it had math problems in place of actual opening hours, and listed the store as closed on Mondays through Wednesdays. Around it were other, equally strange signs. 'We reserve the right to refuse service to anyone.' 'NO PARANORMAL INVESTIGATORS-- STRICT ENFORCEMENT.' Old book quotes that looked like they had been printed out off a typewriter and taped there. An eclectic mix of newspaper clippings that went back centuries. Random old photos. An info sheet about proper duck diets. Several different pride flag stickers, in addition to the big one flying up above the door.

She kept coming back to the math problems. They looked hard. Or at the very least, time-consuming.

"That's so stupid," she repeated.

Reuben huffed and got out his phone and started typing. "Yeah, especially 'cuz it's at _my _grade level. They don't teach this stuff in year seven; you guys are lucky that I'm here."

"What?" Kiersten said. "Yeah, they do. We literally did problems exactly like this _today."_

"Oh yeah?" he asked. "So you'd be able to simply that expression? All on your own?"

"It's literally an equation, dumbass," Brayden said.

"It doesn't have an equal sign."

"Yes it does."

"No it doesn't."

"What the frick are you guys talking about? It's a long division problem," Frankie said.

"Guys..." Kiersten said, eyes wide. "What if we're all seeing different problems? And it's changing for each of us, but like, in our minds?"

Neveah huffed a word that Frankie didn't quite get.

"This is dumb," Reuben said, and he pulled up his phone's camera and took a photo of the sign. Kiersten did the same, and the kids all crowded around to examine the two phones.

They were silent for a long time.

Then came the outraged yelling.

"We've been standing outside for literally three hours and every problem just says 'math'?!"

* * *

All in all, it took the children another four minutes of anger before they could calm down enough to focus. Then Neveah solved the problem, and she was able to open the door.

Mr. Fell barely looked up from his book as five grumbling middle schoolers stalked in from the cold, slamming down backpacks and textbooks.

If a couple of them shot glares his way, he didn't notice.

And, well. Mr. Fell had hot cocoa and cookies laid out, and stupid math riddle entry or no, it was still better than going to the local library, or-- Heaven forbid-- one of their _houses._

* * *

Despite the inherent horribleness of having to do math that wasn't even for school _or _homework, Frankie and her friends became regulars at the bookshop, for a few hours in the afternoon, on school days when it was open (those changed sometimes). It was nice. It was pleasant.

Mr. Fell was also nice.

Sometimes an old man dressed like a goth would show up and hang out with him. Mr. Fell said that was Mr. Crowley, 'an old business associate,' whatever that meant.

Frankie had told her family all about the weird bookstore with its terrible math door. Her mom had pursed her lips and said she shouldn't get mixed up with things she didn't understand, that the fae were dangerous. But her nan had just laughed and said she didn't know where her mother had gotten that.

"Don't you listen to her," she'd said. "Mr. Fell is good people. There are good fae and there are bad fae, Frankie, just like people. You be kind to him, and he'll be kind to you."

"Mum, if she gets abducted into the faerie realm, I'm holding you personally responsible," Frankie's mum had said.

"Oh, nonsense," her nan had waved that off. "It's perfectly safe. That man has been protecting this community for longer than you or I have been alive, Julia, I won't have you slandering his good name."

Her mother had frowned. "Don't eat the food there," she said. "Or drink anything, or-- so help me God-- _take _something. You might not be able to leave again."

So now Frankie brought her own snacks. Mr. Fell didn't seem to mind, as long as she didn't try to touch the books, which were off limits. But her other friends drank the cocoa and ate whatever pastry was there that day, and they seemed fine.

None of them had ever made the mistake of touching a book, though, and Frankie had a sneaking suspicion that that was a much more important rule than not eating the food.

Right now, the kids were doing homework, mostly of the social studies variety, and Mr. Fell was reading at his desk, while Mr. Crowley sat in an obnoxious sprawl in the comfiest armchair, frowning at an old smartphone.

"Hey, Mr. Fell, do you know what caused the Great Depression?" Brayden asked.

Last week, they had discovered that mentioning which book they were reading in class caused Mr. Fell to light up. Almost literally, Kiersten swore. Since then, the children had all decided he was a very good source for homework help, so long as you were willing to listen to a rant about his personal opinions on any given piece of literature.

"Hmm. It was credit cards, wasn't it?" Mr. Fell said, turning to Mr. Crowley.

"Nah, I think Mammon just got pi--"

The door to the bookshop slammed open and knocked into the wall, the bells over it jangling harshly. A woman ran through almost too fast for Frankie to see her, dodging past the stacks until she was out of sight.

Mr. Fell and Mr. Crowley were on their feet in an instant.

The woman was crying, sobbing-- the kids could hear her, clearly, pleading for something and saying sorry over and over while Mr. Fell talked softly.

Frankie felt frozen in her seat. She looked around, and her friends seemed to be in the same position, eyes wide and bodies motionless.

A man appeared outside the door and tried to shove it open. It stayed shut, and Frankie could hear him swear even through the glass, snarling and shouting threats and slamming his hand against it, over and over. He was cursing up a storm, words she had never even heard before.

Mr. Crowley stalked over to the door, looking fluid and sinister. Frankie had never even thought to be afraid of him before, but now, she thought, that man probably should be.

* * *

Frankie blinked her eyes open, raising her head off her textbook. The page stayed stuck to her cheek until she twitched it off.

She frowned. She was at home, in the kitchen. Her homework was open in front of her, pencil just off to the side, the next problem waiting to be filled in. Everything was exactly how it had been two minutes ago, except the location. But... she hadn't dreamed that. She hadn't _imagined _being in Mr. Fell's shop.

Had she?

She pulled out her phone and started texting.


	2. The Barbershop

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for one instance of misgendering of a closeted trans character. Also someone is kind of a dick to Aziraphale for a hot second in a way that could be interpreted as transphobic
> 
> I'm an American who has an American keyboard and too much laziness to seek out currency exchange rates and go through the whole process of inserting special characters, so a haircut costs $15, just go with it
> 
> If I get something else wrong, correct me on it though, but not the money thing, I don't care.

The Patitucci family had been owning and operating a barbershop down in Soho for seven generations. And for as long as the shop had been open, Mr. Fell had been a regular customer.

It was an old family legend, the stories passed down from generation to generation, along with the shop. You learned how to cut hair, how to talk to the customers, how to manage the books. The barbershop was an essential part of family history, and Alyssa had been told-- time and time again-- that it would have failed if it hadn't been for Mr. Fell.

Her father had always been one to talk about his work, and Alyssa had been hanging out around the barbershop since she was old enough to run around and cause trouble. But these past few years, her father had started training her to take it over one day, and now he would give her specific advice on how to handle the regulars-- away from prying ears, of course.

Most of it she already knew, and most of the regulars already knew her. A barbershop tended to attract broke or old-fashioned men (or very occasionally women), and almost all of them had seen her growing up in the periphery over the years. They'd talk about the economy and their families and occasionally politics or sports, and all of them made a huge fuss when they heard Alyssa would be taking over. A good number of them volunteered to let her practice on cutting their hair, but the price for that was the constant good-natured ribbing about her ruining it completely.

Alyssa always just grinned and told them it wasn't _possible _for her to make them look uglier, or she'd joke about how no one would even notice if she shaved it all off, given how little hair a given customer had left. Sometimes she'd throw in a joking threat about bad dye jobs or scissors near their neck for good measure.

In general, everyone was very supportive.

"Oh, Mr. Fell!" her father cried, and heads turned to see the shop's oldest customer walk in. "I haven't seen you in ages! Where've you been?"

"Oh, I've just got a bit of business to attend to in the countryside, that's all," he said. "Haven't had the chance to get into town much at all lately."

"Yeah, I saw your shop's been closed," Ernie said. Ernie was another long-time customer, though a mortal one, and he was having his hair cut by Alyssa's dad right now.

"Hey, I'm busy right now, dealing with Ernie, the insufferable bastard, but my son, Tom, you remember Tom? I've been training him to take over, and he can be the one to cut your hair for you today, is that alright?" Alyssa's dad nodded his head towards her.

"Oh, perfectly," Mr. Fell nodded, and he turned to give Alyssa a smile. She give him a polite grin and got out a barber's cape in preparation.

"Just a little length of it like usual?" she asked, snapping the cape closed around his neck.

"Oh!" Mr. Fell's hair visibly grew about a centimeter before her eyes. "Yes, yes, just like usual. A trim."

Alyssa had to pause to soak in that.

Mr. Fell was a bit of an odd one. He was obviously immortal, everyone knew that, but Alyssa didn't think anyone in her family had ever quite seen something like _that _before. It was one thing to know, intellectually, that the man did not age. And sure, he didn't seem to have a concept of some basic things. For instance, he doesn't seem to realize that the Patituccis know he's immortal. It's as if he thinks that information just disappears with every generation, as if they don't talk to each other or something. He sometimes blatantly lies about not being centuries old, as if he is fooling anyone.

And he comes in for haircuts sporadically, sure, usually about twice a month, and he always gets the exact same trim. But, well, Alyssa had kind of just assumed his hair grew fast. Some peoples' does! Not _that _fast, generally, but expected standards do not apply to Mr. Fell. But then, now that she thinks about it, if he doesn't age, then why would his hair grow? It seems obvious in hindsight. But then--

"Dear?" Mr. Fell asked.

"Oh, right. Sorry," she said. She picked up her scissors. "So, you've got business in the countryside?"

"Ah. Yes," he said. "Nothing important. Not really 'business,' either, just... Well. Again, it's nothing important. How's your school going?"

"Fine," she said. "Set to graduate in three months. I already got all my cosmetology certifications-- one of those trade school programs."

"Certifications? To cut hair?"

"It's more complicated than people think," she said, which was a terribly familiar line by this point. "Mostly to do with chemicals for treatment solutions and dyes and stuff, though. Lotta chemistry."

"Hardly need that in a barbershop," Ernie called out. "Who here is getting their hair dyed?"

"The single half of the old geezers," Alyssa said flatly. Her father and Old Lenny laughed.

To be clear, Old Lenny was not getting his hair cut, and he did not work there. He was just reading the newspaper.

Her father shook his head, smiling. "And you get these young kids in here nowadays, they all want bright colors. They want stuff shaved into their head. Lines and things. The other day, a college boy came in here and asked for a green mohawk. A green mohawk!" he said. "I sold a lot of hair gel to that one. Taught him how to use it, too."

"Oh, I know just what you mean," Mr. Fell said. "Crowley is exactly the same way. Always changing her hair, doing the latest modern thing. Very fashionable." He shook his head fondly. "I wouldn't be surprised at all if _she _got some spiky mohawk here soon."

"She? I thought your Crowley was a man," Alyssa's dad said.

"Oh," Mr. Fell tried to wave a hand nonchalantly, then realized the cape was in the way. Alyssa backed off as he moved and fussed about, rearranging the cape so that his forearms were out of it and resting on the arms of the chair. He does that every time, and every time, his jacket gets covered in hair. Alyssa has been annoyed by it since she was nine and first noticed.

Mr. Fell also moves around a lot, and, generally, makes his barber's job harder.

"That's variable," he said.

"What?" Ernie said, in absolute confusion.

"Crowley, gender, all that. She changes it sometimes. Never stays in the same one for very long. She's been a woman for-- oh, dear, well over a decade now."

"So..." Ernie trailed off. "I don't get it. She, like, transitioned, and then transitioned back? A lot?"

"No, no, you misunderstand. Crowley is genderfluid. She switches her gender presentation frequently, and only stays in one 'mode,' as it were, for short periods of time."

"How the fuck is a decade short?"

"Oh..."

At this point, Mr. Fell visibly realized he had made a mistake. Oh no. He let it slip. He called a decade 'short,' everyone will figure it out now.

"It, uh, it just is." He nodded, as if pleased with himself. Like that was some excellent save or something. "Human lives can span _many _decades."

"Fuckin' freak," Ernie muttered, and Mr. Fell's expression curdled.

"You're done," Alyssa's dad said, voice far more curt than usual. "That'll be $15 at the till."

He led Ernie away to the cash register, walking briskly and forcing the other man to hurry to catch up.

Alyssa worked in silence. Mr. Fell was actually sitting still for once. Good to take advantage of it while it lasted.

"I'm so sorry about that," Alyssa's dad said as he returned. "Ernie is a simple man, bit of a temper. He gets frustrated when he doesn't understand things. He's a funny guy, and a hard worker, it's just-- if he had his way, the whole world would be as simple as he is."

"Ah, not to worry," Mr. Fell said. "And it's hardly your job to apologize for every rude person in London, Marcus. I assure you, I've faced far worse."

A pang of _something _hit Alyssa in the chest. Fear, maybe? Dread?

She hadn't been expecting this when she woke up today.

"People are gonna hate," Old Lenny said from his corner. "But Soho wouldn't be Soho if we didn't look that hate in the eye and say it wasn't worth a lick o' anything."

"Right you are, my good man," Mr. Fell said. "And you and I would know better than most, Leonard, about the power of standing firm and staying."

Old Lenny nodded slowly. He looked straight at Alyssa and pointed at Mr. Fell. "You be nice to this one," he said. "He helped me out when I was a teenager."

Her throat felt tight. "Oh wow," she said. "Centuries ago, was it?"

They both chuckled. "About right, about right," Old Lenny said. He straightened his newspaper, pages crinkling under gnarled joints, and went back to reading.

"Mr. Fell," Alyssa asked. "How long have you known Crowley?"

"Oh, six... Hmm." He smiled. "Forever. I've known her forever."

That was a part of the stories, passed down from generation to generation, as both customer handling tips and legends of an entity who is both unimaginably old and unimaginably kind. Whatever Mr. Fell was, Ms. Crowley was too.

It was nice, to know that Mr. Fell wasn't alone.

"Was it ever hard?" Alyssa asked. "With all of her gender changes?"

Mr. Fell decidedly to turn around in his chair suddenly, narrowly avoiding scissors to his ear. "My dear," he said gently, and Alyssa's stomach dropped as she realized _he knew. _"It is never hard if you truly love someone enough. I want Crowley to be as happy and comfortable as possible. The idea of not treating her with the most basic respect-- it's unthinkable to me. And," he said. "while I realize it's different for hu-- I mean. For people who are-- unfamiliar, there can be some initial difficulties. Slip-ups happen. Heaven knows I used Crowley's incorrect name at least a handful of times over the years. But I apologized, and I corrected myself, and I tried not to do it again."

"Hm," Marcus said. "I have never heard of someone who is 'gender fluid.' Today, I learned something new." He shook his head. "From Mr. Fell of all people. You're going to make _me _feel old."

"Oh--" he laughed. "I assure you, it's nothing new. Crowley has been genderfluid for _ages, _and will be for ages more, I should hope."

"With the way you keep going, old man?" Old Lenny said. "She'll be mixing it up straight into the space age."

"Ah ha, you and me both," Mr. Fell said, as if anyone here had been under the slightest impression that Old Lenny was joking. "While we're on the topic, though, I'm not quite a man either."

"Really?" Alyssa asked.

"Yes. Yes, I'm agender, actually. Never got caught up in all the fuss and bother like Crowley did, I'm afraid."

"Agender?" Marcus asked.

"Opted out of gender entirely. Decided not to have one. Not a man nor a woman, properly."

"Oh? What do I call you then?" Marcus asked, frowning. He looked worried, unless Alyssa was reading way too much into that. Was he worried? Was he just confused?

She was absolutely zeroed in, and frankly, it was a good thing Mr. Fell was moving too much to even contemplate cutting his hair right then.

"Oh, Mr. Fell is still fine, or Ezra, if you like. You've certainly known me long enough. My pronouns are he or they-- whichever, really."

"Mr. Fell," Marcus blustered, frowning deeper. "You have been an old ma-- You have been _old _since I was in diapers. I cannot call you by your first name, it's impossible," he said. 

"You call Leonard by his first name." Mr. Fell blinked.

"Lenny is a disaster and a punk, has been always--"

Old Lenny nodded sagely.

"--you are esteemed. Dignified. I will use your last name and an honorific, you want that honorific to be 'Mr.'" He gave some sort of shrug/nod combo. "Great. We have an understanding now. I'm glad."

"Oh, wonderful," Mr. Fell smiled, in that way that made Alyssa think there should be some sort of charming harmony to accompany it, and she went back to cutting their hair.

She felt lighter.

"You say your bookshop's been closed lately?" she asked. "When'll it be open again? Maybe I wanna show up and bug you. Yell at you for using too much shampoo or something."

"Shampoo--?" they asked, as if they had never heard that word before, and Alyssa clamped down firmly on her gut reaction.

It was fine. It was fine. Mr. Fell's hair didn't even grow naturally. If they didn't think it needed washed, then it probably didn't. It was clean right now, wasn't it?

Yes. It was clean right now. This is fine.

"Probably not for a while," they said. "At least another month. If... Well. I certainly hope to have it open regularly again within a month from now. Crowley and I should be finished up with our business by then."

"Oh? So it's you _and _Crowley's business now?" Marcus teased. Mr. Fell immediately blushed-- like a kid-- and Alyssa burst out laughing.

"You said you loved her a while back," Old Lenny said, complete with a shit-eating grin. "Don't think you even noticed."

"What! I most certainly did not!"

"Oh my God, you _did!" _Alyssa said. "Yeah, I asked you if it was hard, and you were like, 'not if you love them truly,' casual as can be. You love her."

"That's preposterous."

"When are you gonna make a move, man?" Old Lenny asked. "It's been way too long, and that's just from what I've seen. Mountains have moved slower. Empires have fallen, probably. What are you waiting for, at this point? The end of the world? You gonna ask her out _after?"_

Mr. Fell actually paused, and Alyssa raised an eyebrow.

"You know," they said. "You might just have a point."

"You're going to ask out Crowley? After all this time?" Marcus asked.

"...Yes. Yes, I'm going to-- to do that soon."

"You stay right there," Marcus said. "I have just the thing. A new cologne. She is going to love it, I guarantee."

He went off into the rooms at the back to fetch it.

Alyssa kept cutting Mr. Fell's hair, and she felt warm and a lot better than she had, even just a few minutes ago. As much as her dad had learned something new today, so had Alyssa. It had been eye-opening.

Maybe it was time they had a conversation.

Her dad came back with the new cologne just as she was ringing Mr. Fell up.

"Oh! How much do I owe you?"

This was a misleading question, as Mr. Fell never paid the actual amount owed. He used coins that were definitely no longer in circulation, but that had the "right" numbers on them. A single visit from Mr. Fell was worth about as much as half a month's regular business.

Attempts to explain this had, so far, resulted in Mr. Fell getting anxious and flustered and asking about inflation while giving them even more precious coins. The policy was to no longer explain, and also to lie about prices.

"Oh, the cologne is free, Mr. Fell, you're an old friend," Marcus said. "You're finding love! Romancing the one who captured your heart so long ago! I can't send you out without anything to help you along. It's free, I insist."

"Oh, oh, really, that's not--"

"Just take it," Alyssa said.

Their lips twitched. "Alright," they said. "Well, how much do I owe you for the haircut? I definitely have to pay for that, and A-hn, uh, um, _you_ did such a fine job cutting my hair. Lovely work, really."

Alyssa realized with a small drop of terror that not only did Mr. Fell know she was trans, but he also somehow knew her _name._

God, she's going to be researching supernatural garbage on the internet after this, trying to decide if she needs a tinfoil hat or not. This is ridiculous.

"Charge is ten," she said. It isn't, and she very specifically doesn't say ten _what, _because Mr. Fell doesn't know what a Euro is, and ten pounds means something different to him than it does to Alyssa.

She has no doubt he would pay ten pounds if asked, and perhaps her family could buy a condo or something with it if he did.

Mr. Fell gave her coins that totaled to thirteen. They may have no clue what currency was being used in this century, but they certainly did know that tipping was good manners. Mr. Fell had always had good manners, and he likely always will.

They dropped the coins into Alyssa's hand and gave her a genial pat. "I wish you all the best," he said, looking at them both.

A sense of warmth and hope and love flooded through Alyssa, starting in her hand and spreading out.

Mr. Fell left, off to go about his day and finally woo his Crowley, hopefully.

The Patitucci family had been running a barbershop in Soho for seven generations, run by every oldest son since they first came to this country until Alyssa. The barbershop had stood through two world wars, and great deal of turmoil both before and after and in between.

It never would have lasted three years if it hadn't been for Mr. Fell.

Alyssa had been told that, over and over, but before today, she had never felt personally blessed.


	3. Aziraphale's (FBI) SIS Agents: Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it's the eeennnd of the wooorrld as we know it

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bookshop address is completely made up, including the street name
> 
> Underlined things are not actually links lol, I just wanted them to look like it

The British government is aware of the true nature of Mr. Fell. Or, select parts of the British government, anyway.

It started with his taxes, of all things. They had been flagged by the tax service in the 50's as being far _too _good, too thorough. Mr. Fell had recorded finding loose change on the ground and putting that in the little exchangeable-change dish on his shop's counter. That was absurd. The government does not care about 37¢, except for when it is an obvious ploy to keep them from looking too closely.

So he had been audited. Thoroughly.

And then he had been audited again every year for the next three years with increasing frustrated confusion, until his case was referred to what was then called MI5, for a more formal investigation.

Frankly, Mr. Fell's finances just didn't make sense. He is the owner-operator of a corner bookstore in Soho, specializing in rare and valuable texts, yet the shop records a loss every year. It's actually driving down property values. His collection of texts themselves has been meticulously estimated to value between $50,000 and $6,200,000, but frankly, some of the stuff in there is so old as to be truly _invaluable, _if it's real. This is not counting the value of the property and the shop itself, which has been nominated a few times to be added to the national historic landmarks registry.

Mr. Fell sells an average of 0.7 books per year. The books he does sell are always common copies worth less than $20, and the only 'common copies' of anything within his shop, and always mysteriously purchased just the week before, or at least that's what his records say. Horribly, the tax investigators were never able to prove otherwise.

He spends thousands a year on new purchases in addition to running and maintenance costs, food costs (which ran the gamut of things from dinners at the Ritz to 3am street falafel to organic gourmet ingredients to boxes of packaged snack cakes), an exorbitant amount spent on high-society entertainment, weird random shit (fluffy bunny slippers, terrible and cheesy movie rentals, bath bombs, antique vinyl records), and unsettlingly rare visit to the tailor's. His shop essentially produced no income and cut a massive loss, over and over and over. Yet Mr. Fell never ran out of money, which he attributed to his generous inheritance. Old family money, allegedly.

Looking into said 'old family money' had only raised more questions. Allegedly, A. Z. Fell & Co's bookstore had been passed down father-to-son for generations. However, the paper trail didn't support this. It had been purchased in 1795 by longtime, well-respected, completely undocumented London citizen Anthony Zira Fell. The original Mr. Fell had been unmarried, at least legally, and had had no children. There was no death certificate on record for him. The shop had never been sold to a different Mr. Fell, it had never been leased out, there was no indication whatsoever that it had ever changed hands, or even gotten new management.

On paper, Mr. Fell had opened up a bookshop 166 years ago and was still running it to this day.

After the tax service had handed the case over, MI5 had reviewed all the information themselves and confirmed the initial reports. Then they created a task force charged with gathering further information on the entity. That was in 1961. Now, in 2019, Subject A has continued to be a baffling surveillance assignment and bookshop owner for now 224 years. Still does immaculate taxes.

MI5 became the SIS, and still, Subject A is there, running a bookstore, not really doing much of anything but still being just dangerous enough to warrant watching. These are the basics of their files.

**SUBJECT: **Entity known officially as Subject A

**ALIAS(ES):** Anthony Zira (A. Z.) Fell, (Brother) Francis Kalon, Ezra Fell, Aziraphale* (see notes)

**RESIDENCE(S): **4004 Selcouth Avenue, Soho, London, England, United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland

**KNOWN ASSOCIATES: **Subject B (see file), unknown Subject C** (see file),Thaddeus Dowling, Harriet Dowling, Warlock Dowling, Marcus Patitucci, Alyssa Patitucci, Joyce Blake, Shaheed al-Rahmani, Motome Takahashi, Motome Tatsui, Motome Hinako, Hayden Wallace, Xavier Dawson, Francine Moore, Brayden Robertson, Jaden Hodge, Micaella Benson, Neveah Campbell, Reuben Rees, Emma Wilkinson, Cameron Davis, Keirsten Mitchell... (extend list)

**OCCUPATION: **Book collector

**DESCRIPTION: **Subject A appears to be a human man about 50 years old. Caucasian, white hair, hazel eyes. Average height and larger build. Typically clothed in 19th century suits in pastel colors. No identifying marks. Subject A's appearance has not changed at all since being put under surveillance 58 years ago, as of August 2019 (see photos)

**ABILITIES:** Subject A appears to be non-aging and functionally immortal. It is uncertain what the limitations of this are, if there are any, or how this would pertain to normally fatal injuries. Subject A does appear to be vulnerable to an extent. They have been witnessed to burn their tongue on hot drinks and stub their toes on numerous occasions. Subject A's dwelling has unusual effects, especially in regards to its door, which is locally rumored to never open to those with malicious intent, but to always allow those who need shelter. There is also some sort of illusionary effect over the sign listing the store's opening hours (see further notes). Subject A additionally appears to have perfect luck in all things, with few exceptions (see further notes).

**THEORIES:** Eight (8)theories have been proposed to explain unusual incidences regarding Subject A. The demon deal theory posits that Subject A traded their soul (or possibly other favors) for immortality, in a deal likely struck with Subject B, or the devil, using Subject B as a transactionary agent. The faerie theory states that Subject A is simply one of the Good People, definitely of the Seelie Court, and should be left unbothered and treated with the utmost respect. This theory is one of the most accepted, and seems to have significant local acknowledgement, but critics state that even a Seelie faerie would enact more tricks, mischief, and general mayhem then Subject A displays. The angel theory supposes that Subject A is a divine being inexplicably living amongst humans. This theory is supported primarily by Subject B's frequent address of Subject A as 'angel,' and the debate among experts as to whether this is meant as a title, species designation, or merely a pet name; in addition to Subject A's regular acts of goodwill and charity, and the high number of lucky coincidences that happen to them and those around them. The conspiracy theory supposes that this is an elaborate Russian psyop designed to waste British government resources and drive us all to insanity and doubt. The conspiracy theory steadily lost traction as time went on and was mostly abandoned by the 1990s. The Mandela Effect theory claims that this is all a mass hallucination and none of it is real, that we have imagined all of this, including the shared experiences and hard evidence. Perhaps one day we will wake up and it was all a dream. It should be noted that this theory was first proposed on a night when the task force was drinking heavily together and playing Cards Against Humanity, and it has only been included in the file because Agent Kowalski insisted. The alien theory says that Subject A is an extraterrestrial being who is living on Earth for unknown reasons and has elected to disguise themselves as a human, either for simplicity's sake to make their life easier or as a nefarious stealth tactic, possibly related to espionage. The dragon theory states that Subject A is a long-lived dragon in human form and the bookshop is their hoard. This theory was proposed and championed entirely by Agent Kowalski. The natural immortal theory posits that Subject A is simply like that, possibly due to being born that way, or under unusual circumstances, or cursed within infancy, as these are all things known to have happened in historical folklore, which might be based in truth somewhat. This was also devised by Agent Kowalski.

*Subject A has been addressed as 'Aziraphale' solely by Subjects B and C. The name is linguistically Hebrew, though not used by anyone else on the planet (past or present), and means roughly something like "And Then Also God Heals." The fact that it is only used by similarly suspicious subjects has been considered telling, and to mean that these subjects are, so to speak, in the know, and also possibly of similar alignments. The fact that this alias is biblical-esque in nature has been used as support for the angel theory.

**Subject C has only one confirmed appearance and one unconfirmed one. Their relationship towards Subject A appears to be hostile or antagonistic in nature, and the confirmed encounter preceded Subject A to fleeing London indefinitely, for presumably the first time in centuries. No aliases known. It has been postulated that Incident 2008.503 was an issuance of orders, which would support either the conspiracy theory or the alien theory. This was leveled as irrefutable evidence of the conspiracy theory by Agent MacGregor (now retired). Further information to be found in files.

And then there were files on files on files of incident reports and surveillance minutes and on and on and on. It was exhausting to think about. When Siddhi Dhavale was first assigned to this post, it had taken a whole month to read through just the reports that her supervisor, Andrew Walker, had decided were 'important' and 'relevant.'

But 58 years of surveillance will do that.

On the plus side, despite what spy action movies will try and convince you, this was actually one of the most enjoyable posts for an SIS agent. Little to no threat of sudden violent death. No soul-spiraling crises of morality. No politics at all, especially international ones, which was a relief in this day and age. Her coworkers were pretty cool and chill, they told a lot of jokes related to their assignment. These jokes tended to run on repeating themes of the X-Files, Torchwood, Area 51, and Men in Black. Plus, of course, anything even vaguely cryptid related.

Kowalski had made a group chat. Only Walker and Burns weren't in it, and more importantly, they didn't know about it.

Chapman, interestingly, _was _in it, despite being 52 and still playing farming games on Facebook, which was his only social media. He was actually a pretty funny dude, and very nice. Basically the friendly dad of this SIS intelligence-gathering task force.

The polar opposite of Burns, that absolute dick.

"They're approaching a bench," Kowalski said, leaning forward.

"You think they'll actually sit down?" Porter asked, popping a chip in her mouth. Her feet were propped up on the dash of the surveillance van, crossed at the ankles.

Burns shot her a malicious look. Dhavale scooched her chair closer to Porter defensively.

"They're out of disguise," Dhavale said. "Think it means something?"

"They did both just get fired, mysteriously, and together, under mysterious but separate circumstances," Kowalski said. "I think whatever's going on is coming to a head. Question is whether something went wrong and they're panicking, or if this is the natural conclusion to their plan."

Eleven years ago, Subject C had appeared (allegedly out of nowhere) in the middle of the Motome sushi restaurant. They had spoken briefly with Subject A and seemed to cause them significant distress. Subjects A and B spent the entire following day together-- which wasn't unusual-- but Subject A continued to appear distressed, defensive, and avoidant the entire time, which _was_ unusual. Both subjects began putting things in motion immediately afterwards, and within one week, they had taken up new false identities and employment at the estate of the American ambassador to the United Kingdom.

Ambassador Dowling had been discreetly red-flagged for a government watchlist. Every member of the estate had had a full, thorough background check done on them, and now had a thick file. All of Ambassador Dowling's political decisions and finances had been examined with a fine-toothed comb. The task force had been put on high alert.

And a few years had passed. Then a few more. Then even more.

Dhavale had been hired on three years ago, so she was the newest member of the team. Chapman, obviously, was the oldest, been here twenty years, and then Burns after him, and so on, and so on.

And with every passing year and every visibly exhausting workday and every indignity suffered from the Dowlings, it became increasingly obvious that whatever was going on here, it was big. Big enough that an immortal who had not changed their habits or even clothing style in hundreds of years would uproot their entire life for it. Subject A absolutely was not a neutral but unusual citizen-- they were playing the long game here.

But weirdly, they seemed more focused on the Dowling's child than the actual ambassador. Sure, Subject B had regular contact with Harriet Dowling (insofar as could be said), but that contact was kept solely to talk of Warlock's current interests and issues, and also clothing, and complaints about men. Subject B was subtly urging Mrs. Dowling to pursue a divorce. This seemed counterintuitive to any possible political ploy, except maybe to serve as a distraction to the ambassador.

But the ambassador absolutely had not been involved in anything actually important in eleven years now. Part of that was the government no longer considering him "safe" to receive confidential/sensitive information, and part of that was almost absurd bad luck. All of his initiatives failed. Policies he supported never came to pass. Legislators he backed ended up losing their postings. It was like the man was cursed. His whole career was imploding in on itself.

Subjects A and B sat down on the bench and the whole task force straightened up to attention.

You see. They can't bug the ambassador's estate. His American Secret Service agents would notice. And then either the British government would be accused of spying on their allies, or they would have to attempt to explain about Subject A and the task force, and then it would become a whole big thing, and the Americans would want involved, and next thing you know, the whole thing's on WikiLeaks and the SIS is a laughingstock.

The bookshop itself is also a no-go zone. Despite having a phone that they even appear to use sometimes, the phone is not actually hooked up to anything. A. Z. Fell's bookstore does not have any electricity whatsoever, actually, just a big oculus and candles for light.

There is also a gramophone. Subject A appears to use it sometimes. It also not hooked up to anything.

They do not bug Subject B's residence or vehicle. No one knows why. Dhavale knows somewhere intuitive that it would be very stupid of them to try.

And then there's St. James' Park, which cannot be bugged due to the high number of other international operatives who meet there and bring interference devices and regularly check their surroundings for listening and recording devices.

Combined with the local community's refusal to speak to any outsiders about Subject A, the task force has very little concrete information on their interactions with others, and any conversation with Subject B in particular has the potential to be extremely telling.

This local park had been bugged merely as a precaution, but now they might get the clearest evidence of _something_ this task force has had in years.

"Well, we've done everything we can. All we can do now is wait for his birthday," Subject B said. "The hellhound will be the key. Shows up at three on Wednesday."

"...Right. You've never actually mentioned a hellhound before," Subject A said.

"Ohhh, yeah. Yeah, they're sending him a hellhound to pad by his side and guard him from all harm."

"Oh."

"Biggest one they've got."

"Won't people remark on the sudden appearance of a huge black dog? His parents, for a start?"

"No one will notice anything. It's reality, angel. And young Warlock can do what he likes with that, whether he knows it or not."

Kowalski swore quietly, eyes glued to the distant image on the tiny screen. Dhavale felt the same.

"It's the start of it all. The boy's meant to name it. Stalks-By-Night, Throat-Ripper, something like that. But, if you and I have done our job properly, then he'll send it away unnamed."

"What if he does name it?" Subject A asked. Dhavale's fingers were curled into the arms of her chair with a death grip.

"Then you and I have lost, he'll have all his powers, and Armageddon will be days away."

Porter lurched forward, chair rolling back, as she clutched at her throat and choked. She coughed, and went back to gaping, face red.

"A turn of phrase," Burns said, and he would've said more if they hadn't kept talking.

"There must be some way of stopping it," Subject A said, distorted through tinny speakers.

"If there was no boy... then the process would stop."

"Yes, but there is a boy. He's over there, writing a rude word on a description of a dinosaur."

"Well, there is a boy now. That could change," Subject B said. "Something could happen to him."

A pause.

"I'm saying you could kill him."

Chapman reached over and grabbed one of the old input tablets. He started typing, and 'CONSPIRACY TO MURDER' appeared on one of the screens, one which was almost always blank. Since Dhavale had started working here, the only things that had ever been on it were 'JAYWALKING' and 'PARKING VIOLATION.' There had been an instance of debatable arson and destruction of government property, but the evidence was ruled too circumstantial.

Not their fault an inconvenient ticket happened to spontaneously combust when they approached.

"I've never actually... killed, anything," Subject A said. "I don't think I could."

"Not even to save _everything?"_ Subject B asked. "One life-- against the universe."

"Turn of phrase my ass," Porter said.

"Then, this hellhound, it'll show up at his birthday party?"

"Yeah."

"Well, then we should be there! Maybe I can _stop _the dog. In fact, I could entertain."

"No no no, please, no. No--"

"I just need to get back into practice."

Subject A appeared to be making dramatic hand motions, dropping things, and annoying Subject B, who appeared as if tortured.

"Oh no, no. Don't do your magic act. Please. Please! I'm actually begging you. You have no idea how demeaning that is. Please. --In your finger."

"No, it was in your ear."

"It was in your pocket."

"It was close to your ear."

"Never anywhere near my ear."

"You're no fun."

"Fun?"

"Yes!"

"It's humiliating. You can do proper magic. You can make things disappear."

"But it's not as _fun."_

"Make you disappear."

There was silence, on all ends.

"We'll need to add that to their list of abilities," Chapman said, seeming impressed. "Never even heard of those being updated."


	4. Aziraphale's (FBI) SIS Agents: Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This did not really go the direction I thought it would. The point is, I finished up the spy storyline. The next chapters will go back to being funny and stupid and lighthearted again
> 
> Extremely huge thank you to kittyknowsthings on tumblr for posting a timeline of the apocalypse! Honestly this chapter was super daunting to write until I saw that, it made every way easier and more manageable. Realistically this update might not have happened without it
> 
> Also this chapter contains a more human perspective on the events of the Apocalypse. I don't consider it graphic in any way, especially not compared to canon, but just a heads up. Also I made up a first name for Shadwell

A formal, very stiff and neutrally-worded report was made and sent off to the appropriate higher-ups.

The team had made valiant efforts to bug Subject B's Bentley. They had thought about it, they had discussed it, they had gotten the necessary supplies out, they had even started heading towards the vehicle. No one was even sure what had went wrong there; except, apparently, everything. The idea had been abandoned.

The next step was to observe Warlock Dowling's eleventh birthday party, because apparently it really was all about the boy. They had watched Subjects A and B put on shitty costumes and take jobs as the help, but-- inexplicably-- no one there recognized them from their previous jobs as different help. Cake had been thrown in Subject A's face, a dove had been killed and resurrected, and Porter kept saying how much she really needed a drink.

"This is stupid," Burns said. "Maybe we were wrong. I mean, do you see a hellhound? Any dogs at all, for that matter? 'Cause all I see is a cheap magician."

"He resurrected a dove," Kowalski said.

"He _appeared _to resurrect a dove. We don't know for sure."

"What, you think he's secretly a good magician, putting on a private show for our sakes?"

”I’m saying we shouldn’t take anything from these guys at face value.”

* * *

On Monday, Subjects A and B had discussed the imminent end of the world and murdering a child as a possible solution.

On Tuesday, they did fuck all.

On Wednesday, they got cake thrown in their faces for seemingly no reason, exercised power of life and death over an innocent dove, and then went back to the bookshop. They immediately disappeared from any of the visible rooms, and the shop remained nominally closed.

Thursday morning, the shop opened for business. The team sent Porter in to pose as a customer.

Throughout history, the task force has kept as low a profile as possible, maintaining secrecy as the highest priority and a strict policy of absolutely no contact. This would be the first ever break from that.

Fortunately, A. Z. Fell & Co. had never been a typical bookshop at all, and a customer coming in to browse for hours but never purchase anything was not only accepted, but the model behavior. Subject A spent a half hour talking to Porter about her fake interest in theological history before she cut them off and insisted on getting around to looking at the books.

It had been two hours since that point. Two hours of silence interrupted only by Kowalski's occasional comment over the comms. Dhavale was seated at the cafe across the street, and had gone through three cups of coffee and a big muffin already. She was pretending to be working on a thesis. Pretending to work, it turns out, is more mind-numbing than actual work. Significantly.

Her eyes flicked to the street discreetly. Every ten seconds, like clockwork. "Two unknowns just entered the shop," she said quietly. "Porter, do you have eyes?"

Porter did not move or respond in any way, pretending to be engrossed in reading the spines of books. She was ideally situated between all three people.

"Can I help you?" Subject A asked, distant and muffled over the wire.

"I would like to purchase one of your material objects," an unknown said.

"Is that Subject C?" Kowalski hissed over the comms. "Chapman, do we have any images for him?"

"Searching."

"Books," the second unknown said.

"Books," the first unknown agreed. "Let us discuss my purchase in a private place, because I am-- buying, uhh..."

"Pornography?" the second unknown suggested.

"Pornography!" the first unknown said, delighted.

"Gabriel, come into my, uh, backroom," Subject A said.

"Gabriel!" Kowalski crowed.

"We humans are extremely easily embarrassed. We must buy our pornography secretively," the second unknown said. He turned around to the room at large as he did, and spoke louder. Dhavale angled her head just so to ensure the camera in her glasses caught it, while keeping her eyes casually elsewhere. She was wearing big earrings for the purpose of hiding a camera in the right-side one as well, but there's a greater sense of control with the glasses cam, a surety that they're angled in exactly the right position.

Subject A ushered the two unknowns into the back area of the shop, which had a wide doorway and no door. May as well have had a big neon sign saying 'SPIES WELCOME.'

"Agent Porter, I need you as close to that conversation as possible," Burns said over the comms.

"We need to get the civilian out of there," Dhavale said, frowning at her laptop for show. Muttering about data is less conspicuous than talking to yourself in a cafe, and less likely to be remembered.

There was an older man with a beard in the bookshop who was on record as an old friend of Subject A's. Bhagatveer Ranu, professor at a nearby university, book and antiquities collector, had struck up a rivalry with Subject A at auctions they both frequented decades ago. It was unclear whether they were still rivals or not. They did meet up for tea often, and seemed to have lively discussions, not that the agents knew for sure.

"I can do it," Kowalski said.

"Oh, that's a bad idea," Chapman said. "No offense, but a young fellow like you trying to lure an older gentleman out into the street is not, um... _trustworthy."_

"Get in there, then," Burns snapped. There was shuffling and interference over the comms.

Dhavale watched Porter skim over books until she reached the ones along the wall to the back room, on the side adjacent to the main area and therefore out of sight of everyone in it. She stood close, and became very incredibly interested in the books spread over that table, and chair, and just generally haphazardly laying about.

"Shit," Burns said. "Subject B spotted heading west down Selcouth Avenue. They must have slipped out the back somehow."

"Human beings are so simple," 'Gabriel' said loudly, barely out of sight of the rest of the shop. "And so easily fooled."

Dhavale was internally screaming.

Subject A laughed. "Good job. You-- you fooled them all."

"You remember Sandalphon?" 'Gabriel' asked.

"Uhh, Sodom and Gomorrah," Subject A said. "You were doing a lot of smiting and turning people into salt. Hard to forget."

"I'm within one hundred meters of the bookshop now," Chapman said.

The surveillance van was parked two blocks away. Most of the team was inside it, which had seemed like a good idea at the time.

"Got it! 'Gabriel' is a visual match for Subject C from eleven years ago," Kowalski said. "I'll look through our photo files for any match to the other guy, but I don't think I'll find one."

"Something smells... evil," 'Sandalphon said. There was a tense pause following his words.

"Oh, that'll be the Jeffrey Archer books, I'm afraid," Subject A explained, as if just remembering.

"Well we just wanted to stop by and check on the status of the Antichrist," Subject C said.

"Why? What's wrong? I-I mean if there is-- something wrong, I-I could put my people onto it."

"Nothing's wrong. Everything's going perfectly. There's a lot _happening--_ all good."

_"All_ good?"

"Well, all according to the Divine Plan," he said. "The hellhound has been set loose, and now the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse are being summoned-- Death, Pollution, Famine, War."

"Fuck!" Kowalski yelled into the comms.

"Shut up," Dhavale hissed.

"Right. Who exactly summons them?" Subject A asked.

Chapman entered the bookshop and made a show of looking around. He visibly spotted Professor Ranu and strode over to him.

"Excuse me, sir, are you the owner of the BMW parked out front?" Ranu nodded. "You're being towed!"

Dhavale watched Chapman escort the professor out of the shop. The aforementioned BMW was actually down the street a ways, and decidedly not being towed.

"Not my department," Subject C said. "I believe we outsource that sorta thing."

"About time, that's what I say," 'Sandalphon' said. "You can't have a war without War."

"Sandalphon, that is very good. You can't have a war-- without War! I might use that. Huh? Anyway. No problems? How was the hellhound?"

"I-I-I didn't stick around to see."

"Thank you for my pornography!" Subject C shouted into the main area of the shop.

"Oh, they must have already taken it. Too late," Chapman said.

"My car is right here?" Professor Ranu said.

"Hm? Oh! Oh, terribly sorry, I meant a different BMW. A blue one."

"Excellent job," Subject C said. "You can't have a war without War. Clever."

Both him and 'Sandalphon' stepped out of the back room and further walked out of the shop.

"Ah, it's alright. Thank you for telling me anyway," Professor Ranu said.

"Subject B just got on a bus to Mayfair," Burns said.

Dhavale watched Subject C and his companion walk partway down the street and then simply vanish. Not into the crowd, but actually vanish, there one second and empty air the next. Heads turned in surprise, the crowd on the sidewalk yelping and murmuring, pulling out cell phones too late to catch anything.

* * *

"I have been on the phone and in meetings all day trying to get the rest of the SIS to take this seriously," Walker said. "Please tell me you have good news."

"We have a confirmed second sighting of Subject C, an audio recording of a very telling conversation between him and Subject A, and video footage of Subject C and an unknown visibly disappearing in public," Burns said.

"What do you mean by that?"

"They either turned invisible or teleported away," Dhavale said, pulling up the footage on her laptop. She spun it around on the conference table to face him. Walker watched with a stony face.

"Play me the conversation."

They did.

"Send me copies of all of that, I'm going to try to get the director on the phone again. What's the current status of all our subjects?"

"Subject A entered A. Z. Fell & Co's bookshop at 1649 hours yesterday and currently remains there. As of eight minutes ago, they were sitting and reading a book. Subject B is in their Mayfair residence as of 1011 this morning, having left the bookshop and gone there directly after spending the night. Warlock Dowling is at home, where he has been since Monday. Ambassador Dowling is in a closed State Department meeting. Harriet Dowling is at Aubrey Bennett's estate for a prearranged garden party," Porter said. "Subjects C and D have not been spotted since their disappearance. Subject D is the assigned designation for Subject C's companion, whom he addressed as Sandalphon."

"We're working on expanding the files," Kowalski said.

"Do we have an estimated timeline?" Walker asked. "Anything any of them said? An extrapolation? I'll take whatever you've got, people."

"Subject B said-- Monday-- that they were expecting a hellhound to show up and be named yesterday at three, and if it got sent away, all was well, but if it was named, then there were... days left. Now, we all watched the Dowling boy's party very closely, as did Subjects A and B, and no dog ever arrived," Chapman said.

"Well, what the hell does that mean?" Walker asked.

There was a beat of silence.

"We're unsure, sir," Burns said.

"Work on it," Walker said. "I want a definite answer to that, I want information on those horsemen, I want 'round-the-clock surveillance on Warlock Dowling. Find a way to make that happen. And keep me updated."

* * *

Subject B returned to the bookshop just after lunchtime. They spent seven hours inside, almost entirely in the back room. Then they got into Subject B's old vintage car, and the entire task force loudly complained, for an extended period, with swearing.

"We have speed limits for a reason," Porter said, packing tech as quickly as she could into a go bag. She handed it off to Dhavale on her way out, along with a kiss on her cheek.

"That fool's lucky they haven't killed anyone," Chapman said. "Relies too much on their magic, if you ask me. We don't know how that works. What if their focus drops, just for a second?"

"They could get like a supernatural cold or something and knock down whole buildings," Kowalski said. He snapped his parachute into place and double checked all its strings.

"Dhavale, are you good with flying?" Burns asked as he, Dhavale, and Kowalski trekked out to the landing pad.

"'Course," she said. She slid into the cockpit easily, pulling her hair out of the way and a helmet on, snapping down the visor and microphone. The three of them secured their luggage as much as possible and clicked seatbelts and safety harnesses shut.

The helicopter lifted in the air and followed after the Bentley.

* * *

Five minutes.

Subjects A and B had had a five minute head start. The helicopter had matched them pace for pace.

When they had arrived at Tadfield Manor Conference and Management Training Centre, they had found people wearing fatigues and shooting at each with machine guns. The only good aspect was that they were able to take control of the scene quickly, and immediately call in the appropriate local authorities.

Dhavale bagged and tagged another machine gun before handing it to Kowalski up in the van. He put it in an evidence box and sealed it, opening another box for the next ones.

"We may need to reevaluate things," Dhavale said, making notes in marker on another evidence label. "Our subjects clearly aren't as neutral or harmless as we thought."

"They say they wanna save the world," Kowalski said.

"Yeah," she agreed. "But how many of us humans are gonna get killed along the way?"

She passed up another gun. Kowalski put it into the box.

"A man got shot in the chest and didn't even bruise. There was a massive firefight with everyone armed with automatic weapons and no one even got a scrape. That's not an accident."

"I know," she said. "I think it was a joke. They thought it was funny, to see us all shooting at each other, for real and not knowing it. And these are the good ones. The only angels, as far as we know, who think humans deserve to live."

"So how ruthless are the others going to be," Kowalski asked grimly.

"Exactly," Dhavale said. "Because if they can do this for a joke, then what can they do for their beliefs? For their... crusade?"

* * *

The team had split up at the helicopter and left Porter and Chapman behind for very practical reasons-- someone should stay at the base, coordinate intel for those in the field, talk to Walker whenever he came into the room and panicked, etc.

And, in the event that everything went to shit, at least there was backup.

And in this particular instance, while three of the team members were dealing with a firefight in a country village, the other two were able to resume usual surveillance, and the team leader was able to have multiple arguments simultaneously with the American Embassy, the SIS leadership, the Dowling's security detail, Interpol, and-- of fucking course-- the CIA.

Porter and Chapman saw the dreaded Bentley reenter London late at night and park in front of the bookshop at 2317 hours. Subject A had a book with him that they hadn't previously, attempted to hide it from Subject B, and then break from normal behavior by going their separate ways, rather than into the bookstore together.

Porter and Chapman wrote up reports on the current situation, drew up theories, added in the rest of the team's updates as well as their own. They sent the finalized review off to Walker, who approved it and further sent it to every high-level national and international security official in the world.

* * *

The next morning, Subject A went to an office building that didn't matter and wasn't worth looking into. The team couldn't even remember its name, really.

But Subject B met with a shady character in a diner who was then thoroughly investigated and the Dowlings got in a plane bound for the Middle East, on special orders from the State Department, who apparently wouldn't listen to fucking reason. 

The team has to pick and choose priorities, and they chose the Antichrist, the eleven-year-old spoiled brat who can and will destroy the world. Shadwell gets written off as a slightly unhinged, mildly dangerous con man, and the Dowlings go on history's most over-secured and watched family vacation ever.

At 1936 hours, Subject B leaves his flat suddenly to go stand in a bandstand in a park-- one he and Subject A had met up at before on occasion, and was already bugged. Not too much later, Subject A showed up.

"Well?" Subject B asked. "Any news?"

"Um, what kind of news would that be?"

"Well have you found the missing Antichrist's name, address, and shoe size yet?"

"Missing?" Porter asked. "Oh my God. They're saying they don't know who it is."

"So all that with Warlock Dowling was--"

"His shoe size? Why-Why would I have his shoe size?" Subject A asked.

"It's a joke. I've got nothing either."

"Woulda been great to know this earlier, guys, thanks so much," Kowalski said.

"They can't hear you," Dhavale said.

"It's the Great Plan, Crowley."

"Yeah. For the record: great pustulent mangled bollocks to the Great blasted Plan!" Subject B said, stalking around the bandstand and shouting at the sky.

Subject A looked around nervously. "May you be forgiven."

"I won't be forgiven. Not ever.That's part of a demon's job description. Unforgivable-- that's what I am."

"Oh, I knew it," Chapman said.

"No you didn't," Kowalski said.

"Yes I did. I called it, many years ago."

"You just said that because he's goth though," Dhavale said.

"And the occult powers."

"But Subject A also--"

_"Shhh."_

"You were an angel once," Subject A said.

"That was a long time ago." They crossed the bandstand to loom over the angel. "We find the boy. My agents can do it."

"What?! How does _this guy_ have agents and we don't know anything about it?" Kowalski exploded. "Who are they?"

"And then what?" Subject A asked. "We eliminate him?"

"Someone does. I'm not personally up for killing kids."

"You're the demon. I'm the nice one. I don't have to kill children."

_"This _is humanity's last hope?" Burns muttered.

"Uh-uh-uh--"

"If _you _kill him, then the world gets a reprieve. And Heaven does not have blood on its hands."

"We are talking about a war here, right?" Porter asked. "Like a full-on fucking war?"

"Oh, no blood on your hands? That's a bit holier-than-thou, isn't it?"

"I am a great deal holier than thou. That's the whole point."

"You should kill the boy yourself. Holi-ly."

"I am not killing anybody."

"This is ridiculous. You are ridiculous. I don't even know why I'm still talking to you."

"Well, frankly, neither do I."

"Enough, I'm leaving."

"You can't leave, Crowley!" the angel shouted. "There isn't anywhere to go."

"I'm contacting Walker," Dhavale said. "Let him know to drop the watch on Warlock Dowling. We had bad intel."

"It's a big universe," Subject B said. "Even if this all ends up in a puddle of burning goo, we can go off together."

"Go off _together?"_ Subject A said. "Listen to yourself."

"Oh my Goddd," Porter said.

"How long have we been friends? Six thousand years!"

"Oh my God!" Porter said, indignant this time.

"Friends? We're not friends! We are an _angel_ and a _demon._ We have nothing whatsoever in common. I don't even like you!"

"You dooo!"

"Even if I did know where the Antichrist was, I wouldn't tell you, we're on opposite sides!"

Kowalski slammed his palms down on the dashboard. "We are going to die," he said. "Because of these losers' fucking marital problems."

"He knows, doesn't he?" Porter asked.

"We're on our side," the demon hissed menacingly, stalking forward.

"There is no 'our side,' Crowley! Not anymore," Subject A said. "It's over."

Several agents gasped.

Subject B-- Crowley-- froze. "Right," they said. "Well then."

They turned. Started walking away. The angel didn't stop them.

"Have a nice doomsday!"

* * *

Naturally, there was a nuclear crisis in the middle of the night. The team was woken up mere hours after getting to bed to be summoned to conferences and weigh in with their professional opinions on whether this was related.

Before that was even finished, Atlantis was discovered. The task force became the central expert authority on weird shit going down for the entire world. Walker successfully extricated them to get them back to their actual jobs, and took over the briefings and liaisons.

Subjects A and B were both shut up in their homes again. Subject C had briefly been seen jogging at Battersea Park; Subject A had been waiting for him there when he popped into existence out of nothing, suggesting a prearranged meeting or a known and regular schedule. They had conversed about unknown matters for less than three minutes.

The task force split their focuses between searching for Subject B's supposed network of agents and looking into Shadwell's life and history. The team came up with a solid plan and Kowalski went in undercover as a potential initiate to the Witchfinder Army with over a dozen bugs ready to plant. He was turned away within ten minutes for being highly suspicious, giving Shadwell attitude, and was then accused of witchcraft.

He set a tiny notepad on the briefing table when he came back. "Found this _outside_ Shadwell's apartment and did my civic duty by picking up this horrible litter someone left behind."

"Really," Burns said flatly.

"Uh-huh. It was on a little end table in the apartment hallway, and building security footage would confirm my story."

Dhavale slid the notepad over to read it.

ADAM YOUNG

4 HOGBACK LANE

TADFIELD

"Looks like we found our Antichrist."

* * *

Parents are very reluctant to give specific details about their children to strangers over the phone, especially things like their location and current psychological state-- even if you totally swear you're an SIS agent and this is a matter of global security. So three agents took the helicopter to Tadfield and two others followed behind in the surveillance van.

Porter and Dhavale flashed badges and smiles and were quickly welcomed into the Young household.

Deirdre Young bustled about making tea for their guests and Arthur Young welcomed them to make themselves at home in the living room.

"Now," he said, settling into an armchair. "How can I help you two ladies today, hm?"

"We just wanted to ask you a couple questions about your son Adam," Porter said. "He's not in trouble or anything. We think he might know some crucial information about an ongoing investigation of ours and not realize how important it is."

"Do you know where he is?" Dhavale asked.

Arthur's eyes widened. "Wh-- Um, should be... Out playing with his friends."

Deirdre came into the room with tea and passed cups out. "What's this about, then?"

"They want to know about Adam," Arthur said incredulously. "Think he might have witnessed something."

"Oh, that can't be," Deirdre said. "Adam tells us everything. If he had seen any sort of crime or something, we would have heard all about it."

"We don't think Adam witnessed a crime," Dhavale said. "We think he witnessed something related to a crime that he might not have understood, or would have dismissed as unimportant. What he saw could be the key to bringing a very dangerous man to justice. Please, this is very important. Where is Adam?"

* * *

Adam, apparently, did not have a cell phone. He had been angling for one for months now, though, and would get it as soon as this was over, the Youngs said. Repeatedly.

Pepper did not have a phone either, and Brian used to but then either lost it or dropped it in a toilet, the situation was unclear. Wensleydale, though, did have a simple tracphone he carried around everywhere at his parents' insistence.

The agents were unable to reach him. The Youngs explained that the children frequently spent long hours wandering about in the woods, where there was no service.

Dhavale and Porter thank them for their help, give the Youngs their numbers, then leave and meet up with the rest of their team, and commandeer the local police force to start a discreet search through the woods.

That was at about 1330 hours. By 1430, they receive an update from Chapman (the only agent who had stayed behind in the surveillance van) that A. Z. Fell's bookshop had gone up in flames like a match, first responders had found no one inside it despite Subject A being last seen there, and Subject B had come and gone (along with Warlock Dowling somehow, for some reason) and was now possibly-ish in St. James Park. Shadwell, absurdly, was suspected of deliberate arson.

Chapman put out a warrant for his arrest. He was currently attempting to reestablish communication with the very upset Dowling security detail in order to determine if Warlock had been kidnapped or not.

Walker swore very curtly when informed, but managed to convey the impression that he would be swearing up a blue streak if he had the time to spare.

They also received reports from all over the globe of highly specific alien encounters that all matched up to everyone else's stories, and apparently the entire population of Tibet had gone missing overnight and woken up with the knowledge that their only job now was to dig underground tunnels. Also at some point a kraken had risen from the deep to attack whaling ships specifically. It was unsure what, if any, action should be taken.

"Do you think it's worth it to send an agent down to Subject B?" Dhavale asked over the comms, while trekking through her grid square in Hogback Woods. 

"No, there's no point to it," Walker sighed. "The M25 is backed up to high hell right now, and we need to keep the chopper where you all are. I don't know what the hell is going on with Subject B, why Warlock is still in the picture at all, or where Subject A went. Neither of them have done much real work and I don't have high hopes for Subject B accomplishing anything at this point, especially not from a park. You're better off staying where you are, working the Antichrist angle. Things have been escalating and we don't know how much time we have left."

* * *

By 1630 hours, the search team had found a children's makeshift play area in the woods with no children in it, and apparently they had all managed to go home and check in with their parents before going right back out again, according to the Youngs. Truly miraculous, in that it should have been functionally impossible to accomplish.

But, on the other hand, they had also been informed that everyone on the M25 decided to chant "All hail the Great Beast, devourer of worlds" in unison and then it caught on fire, and also a call center was full of human skeletons where the workers were supposed to be. The scene was being processed, and identification of the bodies seemed easy on the surface, but they were going to double check with dental records regardless.

People were still chanting on the M25 as it burned. As they burned.

The fire seemed resistant to traditional firefighting efforts. Also alternative firefighting efforts. Someone had proposed calling a priest in to bless the water and make it holy; it was being looked into. A whole gang of priests, actually.

The task force further received a report of a little white scooter racing through London at forty feet in the air, two hundred miles an hour, encased in a blue haze. It was reportedly driven by a couple, possibly a man and woman, but sources were largely unclear, freaking the fuck out, and unreliable. No footage caught of the unidentified flying object was clear enough to make any determinations, or identify it.

So unfortunately they had to recommend that London motorists stay inside to avoid the UFO. Most people had already decided to huddle in their homes in terror by that point in the day, though. It was people who were attempting to leave work and go home that were screwed.

This was before they got the call about impending nuclear war. All police and military personnel were mobilized to get people into bomb shelters. Firefighters were told to abandon the M25 and help with evacuation, but most of them refused.

The intelligence community was working on fighting the problem at the source and attempting to disarm all their domestic nuclear warheads. The Occult Entities Task Force of the Secret Intelligence Service took into account the reported trajectory of the flying scooter, an offhand traffic report, and the suspicious location of the American air base, and decided to head there.

* * *

They got there too late, of course. Just on the tail of a very concerned Arthur Young-- who, actually, they're pretty sure wasn't coming until he was almost there.

"Would anyone here care to explain to me what_ exactly _is going on?" Mr. Young asked.

The task force poured out of their van and onto the scene.

"Adam Young!" Burns shouted. "Do not end the world!"

"Bit late," Subject B said, striking panic into the entire team's hearts.

"We already saved it," Subject A said, shooting Subject B a reprimanding look.

_"You_ saved it?" Shadwell asked.

"Harvey Shadwell," Chapman said brusquely. "You're wanted for questioning in concerns to the burning of a bookshop."

"I am?" he asked.

Subject A turned to him and gasped, betrayed. Subject B bristled and stepped forward menacingly.

"Ah-i-It was an accident!" Shadwell said. "There was a bunch of candles, just lyin' about! All over the place for this one's demonic ritual's. Now, I exorcised the beast, but I'm not responsible for what happened after. Unattended flames and whatnot."

"Harvey Shadwell," Subject B hissed. "I am going to persssonally ssee you sssuffer for thissss. For how you have treated--"

"Dear, can we discuss this later?"

_"He deserves to be cursed!"_

"If he still deserves to be cursed a few hours from now, you can curse him then."

"I didn't mean for people to get hurt," Adam said. "Or for things to get destroyed. It's all back to normal now. I'm sorry."

"Adam?" Arthur asked. "What happened?"

"Everyone told me I was something I'm not. Something I didn't want to be. And things got really bad, and I did a lot of stuff I shouldn't have, but it's all okay now. I stopped."

"...I don't understand," he said. He shook his head. "Let's get you home."

At this point Warlock Dowling slunk closer to Subject B until he could tuck against their waist and hug them. Subject B slung an arm around their shoulders. Dhavale felt a sense of dread and impending responsibility. They would have to address that.

"Hey kid," Burns said. "What's your name?"

He scowled. "None of your business."

"Do your parents know you're here?"

"Do _your_ parents know _you're _here?"

"You understand that strange adults keeping you with them while your parents think you're missing is child abduction?"

"I wasn't abducted, I ran away!"

"Hey," Subject B said, turning to address Warlock. "I get that you've been having a rough time lately. I get it. But I think you should go home. Just for tonight, if nothing else. See everything again, your parents, sleep on it, you may feel differently in the morning."

"I won't."

"And if that's the case, then call me and we'll come pick you up."

Dhavale, officially, didn't hear that.

She decided to go talk to the other bystanders, as did the rest of the task force except for Burns. It was very important to collect eyewitness statements while the memories were fresh, you know.

* * *

"So, what are you gonna do now?" Dhavale asked. She and Chapman were walking together back to the parking lot at headquarters, having finally completed the long drive back and then the ceremonial unloading of evidence, to be examined and filed at a later date.

"Retire," Chapman said.

"Oh. I meant like, immediately."

"I'm retiring immediately," he said. "Do you know why I took this job?"

She shook her head. Dhavale personally had taken this post because she been completely obsessed with fantasy and scifi novels as a kid, and still wasn't over that to be honest.

"Because this job does not have days like this."

She nodded. "Well," she said. "Before you retire, me and Erica and Theo are going out for drinks. Wanna come with?"

* * *

Three days later, Subject B stood on a street corner and waved their arms in the air. "Oi! Secret agent people! From Armageddon! I know you're watching, and I wanna talk!"

People gave them a wide berth.

Two minutes later, Porter appeared, having successfully tracked down her poor dear old "dad" with dementia. She made a big show of leading them away to safety. 'Safety' was actually St. James Park. They figured neutral ground was best.

The task force was waiting, doing a bad impression of a casual group of friends who were just out for the day.

"Alright then," Subject B said. "So! You all have been spying on me and Aziraphale. For... years?"

Nobody said anything.

"Listen, here's the thing, I could make your lives very miserable. All of you. I could curse you in a thousand different ways, kill you right here and drag your souls down to Hell myself. I could make it so any vehicle you're in gets every red light for the rest of your lives. But, you've caught me in a very merciful mood. I would be willing, perhaps, to make a deal."

"What sort of deal?" Porter asked, folding her arms.

"An excellent deal. Once in a lifetime opportunities, very small price. I will continue to allow you to live your lives unscathed. Won't even give you any minor curses for your trouble. I will even allow you to keep doing your spy business unobstructed. In return, however, the bookshop is off limits."

"You and your friend spend almost all of your time in that bookshop," Burns said.

"Yeah, it's our _home, _and we'd prefer not to be spied on in it," they said. "Also-- not taking this deal comes with the consequences of me dismantling this unit and making sure you always have rocks in all of your shoes."

"What else?" Dhavale asked.

"I will, for business purposes, require copies of the files you have on Aziraphale and me. Oh! And all of our colleagues! Any files you had on those guys, would really appreciate it," they said. "In return, I'll tell you all of Hell's business."

"Deal!" Kowalski said.

"Kowalski!" Burns snapped. "He does not speak for all of us, he is not in any way a leader--"

"Too late," Subject B said, removing their sunglasses. They tilted their chin up and stared at Chapman with fire behind snake eyes. "The deal is made. The only question now is if you will break it. How worthwhile is your word? Will you break a pact made with a devil?" They leaned forward, uncomfortably close, but Burns held his ground. "It won't just be me you're betraying."

"The files will be delivered to the bookshop within a few days," Dhavale said.

Burns turned to glare at her. "You do _not _have the authority to--"

"Oh, but she did, so you all have to make sure that promise holds true. Am I clear?" Subject B said. One by one, they met all of their eyes with that intense snake gaze and waited until each of them nodded. 

"Good," the demon smiled, all teeth. "We should get along nicely."


End file.
